A few fragments from the "Green Eyes." Here's the first...John speaking, who finds himself in the empty darkroom of the Blue Moon, the only gay club of his (fictional) town, Georgia Beach:
Many places are conducive to reflective thought, and empty darkrooms certainly fit the bill. Thoughts like, 'What am I doing here?' 'how could the world have come to this?' 'will I ever get laid again?' or 'don't stumble.' I'm traipsing in the direction of the bench that runs along the wall on the other side of the room, which I know is there, since I've used it before. It's stupid to stand in an empty room, much better to sit when the opportunity arises. The bench had been installed on the request of the more mature clientele who have come to prefer their sex in horizontal ways, I could be one of them. Plus, thinking is better done sitting. Well, perhaps not true. Anyhow, we are still traipsing, haven't reached the sex bench yet, dark rooms can be confusing. Think of your own bedroom at night.
I've just thought the 'What am I doing here'-thought when the answer strikes me like bad. 'You are killing time before you are going to gate-crash a party,' the answer is. Yes, that's right, gate crashing is what it amounts to. Invited by a random cruising acquaintance who isn't the host himself, and who has fled the sex scene as soon as he had found his swimming suit instead of waiting for me. Clearly, if he was at the party, he would disown me and laugh a camp, British laugh at the pointed question 'Do you know that guy'—if anybody could find Maurice, that is, 'Have you seen Maurice, we have this guy here?' answer: 'Maurice is busy,' yes, Maurice, more precisely "Maurice," anybody would know where "Maurice" is, Maurice, that's the nom de guerre he throws at hapless clingers who don't understand about casual sex.